Saving the Day
by unseemly
Summary: On the incompatibility of politics and survival. Featuring King Terenas Menethil II. Adult language.


**Warcraft belongs to Blizzard**

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Saving the Day

**...**

King Terenas Menethil II sat upon his throne, deep in thought. Gray-bearded chin nestled into his palm, green eyes meditative with calm deliberation, his was a composed and august demeanor.

Presently, he was studying his wayward prince and successor, Arthas, who had just recently tumbled out of a portal and onto the floor of the Capital City throne room, caught fast in a deep, enchanted sleep. His paladin's hammer, Light's Vengeance, had followed mere moments later, crashing down alongside its wielder.

Nigh on to an hour, the young man had lain there outstretched – tall, handsome, and fair, a sleeping beauty if ever there was one – comfortably sprawled across the great seal of Lordaeron, unaware of the strange events that had accompanied his return.

Following Arthas's appearance, a similar portal opened a few paces away across the royal chamber, belching forth a marching troop of cold, weary soldiers. These, the king soon discovered, were the survivors of the prince's Northrend expedition.

Leading this throng, was an irascible Muradin Bronzebeard, and his boisterous band of thirsty dwarfs, all of whom had a great deal more to say about the horrors of frozen ale than any other of their many, perilous misadventures. "Would ne'er goon ta the fuggin' driech ice-hole, had we but kenned oor baws 'n' broo'd friz solid!"

Finally, a tousled, rather overexcited mage arrived, the apparent originator of this havoc. Surrounded by a crackling cloud of magical energy, she dispelled the regurgitative portals with aplomb, and then turned to face the royal court, with an unquestionably vehement purpose.

The king was a bit taken aback by this sudden flurry of activity; and yes, he was a trifle annoyed when the young lady handily abandoned all expected blandishments to his royalty, in favor of immediately pouncing his sleeping son. She bestowed upon the unconscious prince a number of rousing, vigorous kisses, her busy little hands investigating him thoroughly, presumably to determine his state; though from his blissful expression, he appeared to be far from distressed. Satisfied, she leapt to her feet, and without further ado, launched into the oddest rant good King Terenas had ever had inflicted upon him.

She spoke at length, and eloquently, of a terrifying plague, of the corrupted dead raised for diabolic purpose, of a dangerous, fallen Kirin Tor archmage, and of a fiendish power enthroned in the glacial north.

_And then there was the matter of the head._

King Terenas sighed. 'What is _wrong_ with young people these days?' he wondered. 'Light knows they have no wits to speak of, but must they _collectively_ set aside _all_ decorum as well?'

The pretty, but highly-disruptive mage had been discreetly removed for _'debriefing' _and the king was so relieved that her demanding screams for immediate action had finally ceased to echo in the distance.

"Such a _spectacle_," Terenas groused aloud, shaking his head, and rummaging through tenuous memories that suggested the young woman in question had some _special_ relevance. "Oh _yes_..." he recalled, his eyes returning to his sleeping son. "_That_ dalliance." An explanation in and of itself.

In time, the hubbub had passed; and now, at last, Lordaeron's crown prince began to languidly stir in his insensibility, lazily stretching his long, fine limbs and sighing contentedly, until finally, with a soft grunt, he awoke. For a moment or two he lay quietly, drowsy and yawning, his countenance blankly serene, until a voice crooned:

"Ah, my son..."

This prompted a startled shout of alarm from the prince, as he bolted upright, wide-eyed with surprised disbelief, finding his patiently-waiting father before him.

"Sleep well?" Terenas inquired, giving his prince a welcoming smile before settling back upon his throne.

"Good of you to _join_ us, lad," said another, very familiar voice; and one most disapproving in its tone. Arthas sighed; for it was indeed, Lord Uther the Lightbringer, himself, standing there staunch beside his king.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, young man," King Terenas said mildly, leaning forward once again to ponder his prodigal.

"What – how did I—?" Arthas shook his head, rightly bewildered by his present situation. Unsteadily he stood, peering around the large, circular chamber, noting a considerable host of slushy footprints, and having the most disorienting feeling that things had been intended to go _quite_ differently.

Dire, cold memories assailed him, of a great sword, a quenchless rage, and the ceaseless, distant moan of hollow voices, calling out to him, whispering his name in litany...

"What – what has happened?" the prince murmured, bemused; and for a moment, it seemed some forbidding purpose – a monster's snare set for his soul and its destruction – had just been thwarted and turned from fruition, delivering him from a dark and unimaginable fate.

"Well, for starters," said the king, "You burned Stratholme flat. And as if _that_ wasn't enough, you blazed up part of my fleet! What are you anyway? A pyromaniac?"

"I-I," Arthas stammered, turning back to face his king, "The undead, Father, the _plague! _The Burning Legion—"

"I'm not liking this sudden obsession with burning things, my son. And do you have _any_ idea how much a ship _costs?_ Hmm? Look at me when I'm talking to you. More important, do you realize what the loss of Stratholme means to the royal coffers? I'm betting you don't have a clue, do you? Economics classes for _you_, my boy. And you embarrassed Lord Uther! Talking trash at him in front of the underlings! Shame on you! Why, he's been more of a father to you than _I've _ever had time or inclination to be."

"People are _dead_ because of me, Father!" Arthas exclaimed. "And now, even more will die because I failed in Northrend!"

Terenas gestured dismissively, "Oh stop with the melodrama; it's so working class. Besides, your grand quest was a success, my son. Your little mage friend, Anna Loudmost – and my goodness, isn't _she_ appropriately named? She took care of _everything,_ including whatever that nasty horned thing was that taunted you into such a reckless state... I suggested to Uther it might be a sort of magical _goat_..."

"Anna – _**who**__? Magical **WHAT**__?"_

"According to Muradin – and this is assuming he wasn't into his cups – Miss Loudmost blasted some sort of priceless artifact to ashes, after which she apparently incinerated your troublesome goat as well as all its minions, and then she teleported everyone back home." The king looked pensive, "She was also doing a great deal of shouting about glaciers..." he tilted his head thoughtfully, "Admittedly, I cannot say I'm entirely sure _why_…"

"_Proudmoore_, my King," said Uther._ "Jaina_ Proudmoore. The Admiral's daughter, from Kul Tiras."

Arthas stared, _"Jaina?!" _he gasped.

The king sighed, resting his chin upon his steepled fingertips. "I can certainly see why you like her, my boy, but clearly, the girl is similarly _fire_ challenged. Brings to mind all those unexplained blazes that were always cropping up when you two were youngsters…" he shrugged, waving the thought away with a blithe gesture. "Still, I must say Uther was right, she _is_ quite the comely weapon."

"_What was Jaina doing in Northrend?" _Arthas hollered, baffled beyond words. "She said... she said that she wanted no part of it… she... she _denied_ me..." He glanced darkly at his solemn mentor, adding: "As did _you_, Uther…"

"I seem to recall being _dismissed_ from service, Arthas," was Uther's stoical reply.

Terenas sighed, snapping his fingers impatiently, "Oh stop hissing at each other this instant," he commanded, drawing the attention back to himself, which was rightly as it _should_ be. "Well, my son," he added, "considering how Miss Loudmost was groping and fondling you earlier, I might suggest the young lady was simply playing _hard to get_," the king paused to muse, "Muradin claims she followed you to ah, hmm... that place up there, that place with the penguins_."_

Arthas stared at his father, one eyebrow lofted high, the other furrowed with a deep and growing concern; he was actually beginning to wonder if he might conceivably be under the thrall of some deadly, cold-induced delirium of... _"Northrend!" _he shouted, refusing to succumb to the perplexity that so cruelly racked him, "I tracked the _demon_ Mal'Ganis to the frozen North, to face him, to destroy him in combat for his atrocities against my peop—"

"Whatever…" said the king, waving an indifferent hand. "Miss Loudmost knocked you out, before you could hurt yourself, cleaned up whatever godless mess you made _this_ time, and then kindly spirited you home. Where you _belong_." He pointed to the great seal upon the floor, "Which is all well and good. Except for the _head_. That was uncalled for."

_"Wha—" _Arthas began.

"Yes. She gifted me a smoldering head. Of your goat... oh very _well,_ if you insist upon it being a _demon,_ then so shall it be." The king paused for a contemplative moment, and all were silent, awaiting his word. "But as to the _head,"_ he said at last, revisiting his pique, "which was _hideous_ and it _smelled _– she really _must_ be informed of its unsuitability. I have _no_ idea what would compel her to think such would make a proper trophy to present to a _king_... I do believe she thought I would be _pleased,_ and might even wish to display the ugly thing upon the wall in my game room! Humph. I think _not."_ He heaved a thoughtful sigh, adding, "But as she _is_ a foreigner, and we all know how _they_ are, I suppose it's the thought that counts."

Arthas grunted softly, rubbing his forehead, "What the _hell_ is going on?" he whispered urgently.

"Unfortunately," Terenas interjected quickly, before his stunned prince could collect himself enough to begin demanding the still ominously-elusive facts of the peculiar matter, "the poor girl went off on some mad tirade, in _your_ defense, incidentally, speaking rather aggressively of attacking Caer... er... _something,"_ he gestured, quite certain of its insignificance. "She was ranting in a _most_ unladylike fashion about cultists, of all things, and an old, _dead_ teacher of hers. Ye gods! She was also threatening to kill some poor sod marooned on a frozen something or other, or some such nonsense – for Heaven's sake!" the king tsked, feeling a bit unreasonably put upon. "I don't know _what_ the girl was going on about, so I had the Royal Apothecary to sedate the shit out of her..." he spread his hands with a tranquil sigh, "She _is_ very pretty and Uther tells me you favor her, but frankly, I believe she might have a bad influence on you, my son. She _is_ a sailor's daughter, after all. Light knows you have _enough_ behavior issues on your plate as it is. Let us not expand upon them, shall we?"

"Perhaps it is that time of the month for the young lady," Uther suggested most gravely.

"Classic patriarchal non sequitur," Medivh intoned from his high perch.

"Oh _crap,"_ Terenas muttered sourly, "is _he_ still here? And who _is_ this fool anyway? I think it's safe to say everything's gone straight to shit since _he_ showed up," He punctuated with a condemning glower, but the wizard only offered a crafty smile - with hints of possible foreshadowing. The King jabbed an irritable finger at the nuisance. "This one has had something to say about everything that's transpired lately, Uther; though I assure you, _no one has requested his opinion_. I've tried ignoring him, but he's unaffected by disdain. Clearly, he's used to it." Another more encompassing gesture followed these words. "And _what is **this**? _Hmm? Is he a freaking _bird?_ There's feathers everywhere! I thought he'd perhaps visit and then move along; but no – _look_ – he thinks the ambassadorial balcony is his fucking aerie!" The king shook his head with another stern glance toward the object of his discontent. "Well, if this fowl-fixation worsens and he starts randomly pigeon-pooping... _ye gods!_ ... if he takes a dump on my new bust of the Queen, I'm having him _**shot**,_ and _that_ is final! I don't care what he thinks he's _guarding!"_ With a snort of finality, the king returned his attention to his son.

"Now, as for _you_, young man," he said firmly, "no more traipsing off on these glorified rites of passage, or goddamned coming-of-age adventures. That has to stop, my son. Do you think I'm made of gold?" he raised his hands, glancing up toward the elegant, domed ceiling, "All I can say is thank the _Light_ you didn't abscond with the royal carriage!"

"But, Father..." Arthas ventured, "I—"

"No. Be silent." Terenas gave his prince a stern, admonishing look, but it faded quickly and he smiled indulgently, "Not to worry, my boy, all will be set right. I have decided, and Lord Uther concurs, this matter _clearly_ presents the need for an introspective time out. Look _inward_, my son. See the error of your ways. Consider the poor judgment in rushing about spreading discord and senseless rumors about cannibals eating grain. You do realize how outrageous that sounds, don't you? Why, such actions defy the very definition of cannibalism, Ar-_Arthur_, is it? Or did we finally settle on that other name? Your dear mother couldn't make up her mind."

The prince stared at his father, speechless in his incredulity.

"_Arthas_, my King," Uther supplied patiently.

"Alrighty then. You really should commit yourself more to your studies, my boy. A king must be able to at least _pretend_ at knowledge. For example, as I will demonstrate: bread does not find its way to every plate. _Some_ people are gluten intolerant. Still others are dieting. You see? Wisdom. Did you think of either of these options before butchering every single one of those loyal taxpay… mmm, those _fine_ citizens of Stratholme? No. Of course you didn't. Off you went, _yet again,_ on another of your testicle-fueled rampages. You must think of the _big_ picture, Arthur – and the _treasury – _if you're going to be King."

Arthas peered wonderingly at his father, still confounded into silence. Terenas was so pleased to finally have his undivided attention. He had discovered it was a rare commodity to earn from his unruly and rather mulish prince.

"Consider the faulty reasoning that has caused you to leap to these wayward assumptions," the king instructed. "Why, it's just a little _germ,_ Ar—my son, it's not like its a _plague_—"

"It is _indeed_ a plague!" Arthas countered forcefully, "The plague of _undeath_, created by foulest necromancy—"

Terenas snorted, "As if there is any such thing! For Light's sake, aren't you a bit old for fairy tales?" Arthas looked to Uther _–_ no help there. The Lightbringer had his jaw clenched tight, a sure sign his thoughts had wandered, or he needed to attend the latrine.

"And what possessed you," the king was saying, "to just automatically _assume_ that should some theoretically visiting neighbor fall ill, the hosts would then find themselves ripped to pieces over tea and eaten instead of the crumpets?" Terenas paused; he sighed, "Such rash behavior is not showing good royal restraint, my son."

"So I was to _wait_ then?" Arthas asked, his infamous obstinacy finding its voice at last, "Until all of Stratholme was a slavering tidal wave of ravening death that would sweep over my army like a fucking mud slide, and then rush forth to fall upon the entire kingdom, _tearing apart and_ _devouring every living thing encountered?!" _His voice was growing progressively louder as the sentence reached its conclusion. "You have not seen the undead, Father! They are unlike _any_ other threat we have _ever_ faced _– _they are a _scourge!"_

"I'm not liking your _tone_, young man… and kindly watch your language," Terenas warned. "What would your mother say?"

_"My __**language**__?" _Arthas bellowed with a wild gesture.

Terenas sighed. And just _why_ couldn't his son be a normal, idle aristocrat? the king wondered irritably, as he so often had. Why was he so _obsessed_ with the common people? There was absolutely no reason to give them a second thought. At least not until tax time.

"_What are the accusations against me?_" The prince demanded, turning to eye his mentor aggressively,_ "I have a right to defend my actions!"_

Terenas rolled his eyes over the tiresome details. "Lord Uther assures me that while he did have contact with these alleged undead—"

_**"Alleged!? **You fought at Hearthglen, Uther! You **saw** the horrors we face!"_

The king frowned, raising his voice, "He _also_ informed me that it seemed to _him_ you were just acting out for Miss Loudmost's approval."

Arthas gaped. _"Wha—"_

"Now, that will _do_ with the questions," Terenas stated grimly; yes, a firm hand was required. "I _expect_ you to show proper deportment and moral integrity at all times, my son. Failing that, _fake it!_ Maintaining appearances is paramount. After all, you _are_ representing the royal House, a long, long line, my lad, of wisdom, strength and… well, so forth…"

"The fate of our _world_ is at stake, Father! Life _itself_ is in the balance! And you're concerned about my _manners?"_

"More precisely, my son, your pronounced _lack_ of them."

"The people must be rallied to fight! They must be prepared! It is our obligation! _For Lordaeron, for the people!" _

Uther sighed wearily, having heard it all before. "Your father and I have decided you need to get your head on straight, boy, and come to grips with the truth of your priorities. You speak of the people, well, what _they_ need is stability. _Security, _Arthas. And _that_ does _not_ include an heir apparent with an untameably wild hair up his royal arse!"

Arthas blinked, stunned; he laughed hysterically. Lord Uther the Lightbringer had just said _**arse**_.

Adjusting his crown, the king waved a magnanimous hand, "Remember, my son, stirring the hearts of the masses is basically just maintaining the illusion of noble superiority, and keeping the Great Unwashed convinced we actually serve a legitimate purpose. Unless you _want_ to be shoveling pig shit, picking lice, and milking mangy cows with the rest of them. Power comes with _responsibility_, my son! It is _not_ a license for this uproar. No, stop protesting, I'm tired of it! That is final. I expect you to place your royal behind in its privileged niche and keep it there! Be a _normal_ prince, for once! You're always going on about the people, well, then do it _for… for, oh for fuck's sake, what's the name of this damned place again?_"

"My King, please," Arthas exclaimed, approaching his father imploringly, "You must _listen_ to me; you don't understand! There are terrible, dark forces at work – they are poised even now, to overwhelm us!"

"Oh shush," was the king's response. "And keep your distance, you little usurper, or I'll have you arrested. Don't be impudent; and don't pout. Your face will freeze." Terenas twittered merrily, "Did you hear that, Uther? His face will _freeze_. Ha! Ha! Ha! I just hope you didn't lose your little princely nuts to frostbite in that Light-forsaken place – I _expect_ you to make some Menethil heirs eventually. And speaking of which, that just so happens to be another point in Miss Loudmost's favor. _That's_ what you should be thinking about at _your_ age, my boy – _breeding_. Do it for your _people_, if you must. Just _do it._ And you'd _better_ be virile, lest you embarrass me further." The king moved to nudge Uther again, "That girl has some _serious_ curves on her, hasn't she, Uther?" His hands swept through the air in exaggerated arcs. "And what about those spectacular _hips,_ eh?" The Highlord chortled, nodding; the two men exchanged leers.

Frowning suspiciously, the prince was silent for many long moments. "You – you two have been... _what? __**Checking out Jaina's ass**__?" _he muttered finally.

"Well, someone has to, my son; I don't see _you_ taking the initiative. And I will _not_ have you chasing other men halfway across the globe – at least not _publicly! You're not an **elf**! _Think of your reputation, for Light's sake!"

_"He was a __**DEMON**__!" _Arthas shouted, beside himself with frustration.

"Oh stop making that face! And be _quiet_, Arthur. Now heed my counsel, since you're always griping because I never talk to you," he gestured, "It's all about _politics – _just ask Vlad."

Arthas tilted his head, _"Who?"_

"Vlad. That grouchy lad from... er, from that place down south the green things trashed."

Arthas gripped his forehead with one hand, "Varian, Father. _Varian."_

"Whatever," said Terenas, "You can ask _him_ about politics. He surely learned a thing or two from being constantly underfoot after he was deposited here." Arthas looked stricken; and the king paused, tapping his pursed lips with one finger. "That is, if he ever pulls that big chin out of his ass, and stops seeing green, _ahahaha!"_ Arthas sighed and the king beamed with satisfaction. "_Green_, did you get that, Uther? You see where you get your cleverness, my son? So take heed of Vlad – that's what happens when you don't have a father to guide you."

Arthas was frowning stormily, _"**Varian**!"_ he growled, "And I happen to _admire_ him a _great deal!"_

"Now, now…" Terenas soothed; he then turned to Uther, muttering behind his hand, "I have Lothar to thank for this shit, don't I? See what happens when you kindly allow _another_ royal brat to be foisted upon you?" Uther nodded gravely, eyeing Arthas with moody contemplation. "Come now, don't give me your grumpy face," the king added, "the Queen assures me you've been very well compensated. Humph. For all I know, this little pirate is _yours_, instead. It's only fair you should raise him." Uther looked a bit nonplussed, as his mind once again reassessed what had long been a troubling possibility. Terenas smiled wickedly, "He's certainly perfected your 'clenched sphincter' look, hasn't he? Haha! Just kidding," the king said, jostling the Highlord affectionately, "and why should I care, besides? I just need somebody to dump this mess on at some point so I can retire and play bingo."

Terenas looked back to his irate prince; he sighed, "Of course you admire Vlad, my son."

_"__**Varian**__!" _Arthas yelled, fuming with indignation for his noble friend.

"What's in a name? Hmm?" Terenas muttered, struggling to apply himself, "And why wouldn't you admire him? It's not as if you _know_ any better." Arthas looked mighty indignant over _that_ comment. "Alright, alright. Yes, Vl… _arian_ looks good in plate. Yes, he's a mighty warrior… oh blah, blah, blah! Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't join you on your little road trip."

Ignoring Arthas's protests, the king offered a grand, sweeping gesture, concluding with open arms that seemed to promise a consoling embrace. Arthas blinked, peering at his father hopefully. "Oh stop with the kicked-puppy face... surely you don't think I'm serious." The welcoming arms dropped, and Terenas leaned forward on his throne, "One day, my son, when my time is done, this will all be yours. Whether you want it or not." The good king paused, tilting his head and pinching his chin as he mused, "Please, have the decency to wait until I am dead before pissing all over everything I've done. Surely that isn't too much to ask."

Arthas was beginning to look a bit desperate, "But, I-I was trying to save—"

Terenas tutted in a fatherly manner, "Yes, yes, yes. It's alright, my son. You love your people – and because you're young and pretty, your precious people love _you!_ A few years hence, a few gray hairs, a wrinkle or two, and all that will pass. Soon enough they'll be throwing cow pies instead of rose petals, and you'll outgrow your fondness for self-sacrifice damned quick. Trust me. Just give the plebs what they want, which is to ogle you and pretend you belong to them."

"I _do_ belong to my people! I would give _anything_ or pay _any_ pri—"

_"…And_ you _must_ parade Miss... ah, the buxom young lady, keep the masses happily agog with her... _impressive abundance."_ He hefted his cupped hands in an unmistakable gesture. Arthas stared at his father, aghast, head tilted, his cheeks slowly blooming pink, and when the king added curiously, "Do you motorboat?" Arthas's jaw dropped. _"BrrrPBPBPBP!"_ the king demonstrated, to the shock and horror of his prince. "Of _course_ you do," Terenas then proclaimed, "At least if your _my_ son you do. Oh, I know what this kingdom needs! A royal wedding! Yes, let us give the gossip mills some titillating grist to grind. Perhaps if you make a good show of it, my son, the masses... er, your _people_ won't be quite so testy come tax time."

"Even though the crops that would pay those taxes are crumbling to blighted dust in the fields," Arthas muttered.

Terenas smiled benevolently; he had ceased to listen to whatever his irritable offspring was fussing about – it was better that way for everyone concerned. He sighed, wondering where he had gone so wrong with his prince. Holy Light! He'd never encouraged the boy to _think!_

Arthas had grown silent, the king noted with a pleased nod; he gestured to the Royal Guard, watching as they moved to surround their delinquent prince. Terenas was satisfied the matter was settled. Yes, his manic, overly-protective heir would just have to learn the hard way that _caring_ didn't cut it.

There was a clatter of armored footsteps and a rumpled, bleeding soldier interrupted the proceedings, "My Lord King," he cried, rushing through the obligatory groveling, much to Terenas's displeasure. The king frowned deeply, less interested in the man's frantic words than in his untidy appearance, "The city gates are being overrun, my liege…" he gasped. "We are beset! _By the dead!_ Who are _risen!"_

Arthas was struggling fiercely against the many hands restraining him, striving with all his might to take up his holy hammer, even as the king jumped to his feet, appalled.

"Soldiers of Lordaeron!" King Terenas II summoned with all regal authority, pointing a condemning finger at the nigh-hysterical messenger. _"Arrest this man for breach of protocol!"_

...


End file.
